Eight Perfect Hours

by Lia Louis

I hope you find that job that doesn’t feel like work.

I’m that cluttered cupboard, opened, words toppling out, filling silences.

There’s some sort of law, isn’t there, that when you break up with someone, they’re forever remembered and defined by their behaviour when you broke up, and anything after. Everything they did before that is null and void. Even the happy memories. Even all the love you gave each other.

Easy, to fall into a routine,

for us to crawl in and curl up in the comfortable hollows we left in the past, like indents on an old sofa.